


Burn Your Maps, That is Not What I Mean

by thought



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-27 16:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1716962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four Seven Niner does not always know how to give Carolina what she needs, but she's sure as hell going to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn Your Maps, That is Not What I Mean

"Hey! Blueberry!"

Carolina doesn't look up until South Dakota kicks her in the shin. "I think she's talking to you, boss."

Carolina frowns behind her helmet, but heads up to the front of the Pelican anyway. Behind her, the twins go back to arguing. As soon as York and Wyoming get out of the infirmary she's going to kill them for leaving her to run the mission with the new kids. Mississippi is lounging in the back of the ship, helmet off and smirk fully in place. Carolina's looking forward to seeing that smirk fall away when she gets her transfer off the Mother of Invention. It should be arriving in her inbox that evening. Rumour has it they're getting a black ops information retrieval specialist as replacement. Carolina's betting hacker. York's betting professional torturer. Wyoming's been grinning a lot.

"You talking to me?" she asks the pilot.

"You see anybody else blue back there?"

"My armour's teal. And also not a fruit."

"Sit down."

"That's what I was doing until you called me up here."

"I mean in the gunner's seat, smart ass."

Carolina keeps frowning, but takes the position. "Can I help you?"

"I doubt it. But I sort of figured I could help you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I'm about ready to throw Tweedle-Patronizing and Tweedle-authority-problem out the airlock, and I'm not the one who has to work with them."

Carolina snorts. "I'm hoping they grow on you."

"So does mold."

Carolina blows out a breath, shifts a bit to accommodate her bruised ribs. So. You gonna show me how to fly this thing?"

"One step at a time, Blueberry. How about you stick to sitting there and looking pretty and shooting things in the face."

*

"C'mon," Four Seven says, grabbing Carolina's shoulder as they pass in the corridor. "Class is in session."

Carolina pauses. "What're you talking about?"

"You said you wanted to learn to fly my baby."

Carolina shakes her head ruefully. "I'm a little busy."

"Yeah, I can tell. One night off from training won't knock you off that damn board."

Carolina doesn't bother correcting her. Three days ago she'd watched Connie go from Fourth to not even on the board within ten minutes. Nobody's safe. Knowing this, she shouldn't let herself be guided through the ship to the hangar bay. Definitely shouldn’t let the other woman push her down in the pilot's seat, talk her through the start-up checks step by step. Shouldn't lose four hours to weaving her way around the obstacle course that is the little asteroid field above the moon where the Mother is docked for refueling.

Four Seven goes from professional encouragement to grudging admiration to loud swearing and violent threats and back to grudging admiration. Sliding back into the Mother is a bit more difficult. Carolina gets them most of the way there but the last few seconds Four Seven shoves in behind her to cut back their speed and make a slight readjustment for the always-malfunctioning door. They're both in armour but the heavy press of someone else's arm over her shoulders is strangely intimate, the weight of another body pressed up against her side and taking control away from her with no threat of aggression leaving her disconcertingly calm.

"That was some impressive flying for a first timer," Four Seven says once they've landed, and Carolina is glad her faceplate hides the fucking stupid way she grins at the praise.

"Is this the part where I say it's all about having a good teacher?"

Four Seven huffs and pulls away. "Don't strain your delicate Freelancer ego."

Carolina feels strangely exposed, like she's at risk of floating away without that human contact, without the non-metaphorical weight on her shoulders. "Hey, I know the rules. Never piss off your pilot."

"That's right," she says. "Might just forget to come pick you up."

Carolina stands, heads toward the door. "Nah. You wouldn't."

"No," she agrees quietly. "No, I'll always come for you, Agent Carolina."

Carolina's planning to get in a couple hours of training before heading to bed. She turns in the direction of the training rooms, but Four Seven sticks her head out of the Pelican to yell after her. "Hey! Get some sleep!" And Carolina doesn't even think before she's changed direction.

*

The medics keep trying to get her to sit down and let them look her over, but that would involve staying still and staying still will inevitably lead to thinking. Wash is curled up on the floor outside the operating room where they're working on Maine. Connie's lurking around just out of his line-of-sight, shoulders hunched and armour still crusted with dirt and blood and ash.

York is back in a hospital bed. Probably she should be with him, but North seems to have it covered. Probably she should be on the floor with Wash. Probably she should be the one on the fucking operating table instead of Maine. She sees The Counselor leaving a glass-fronted office and ducks around the corner before he notices her. When she looks back through the windows she sees Texas put a fist through the desk while Wyoming glances around nervously. They've both got their helmets off. He looks deeply unsettled. She looks fucking terrified. Carolina turns away and walks fast until she's certain her ankle's going to give out and then she keeps walking.

"Fuck, Blueberry," Four Seven says when Carolina half falls into the Pelican. The pilot's hunkered down in her chair, armour off and hands wrapped white-knuckled around the dark controls. Carolina has a vague memory of Four Seven having a heated argument with somebody over the radio before they docked.

"You ok?" she asks, and then she sits down on the floor because it's there and also her ankle is apparently going on strike.

"Me?" Four Seven demands. She peals herself out of the pilot's chair and comes to crouch down in front of Carolina. Carolina doesn't resist when she pops the seals on her helmet and lifts it away. The air smells like oil and disinfectant. Now exposed to fresh air Carolina becomes aware of the way her face is sticky with dried blood and the background pounding in her head shoves its way to the forefront.

"Maine's in surgery," Carolina says. "Texas retrieved the objective. York might have re-injured his eye, I don't--"

"Hey, hey, it's ok. I'm not asking for a report, soldier."

Carolina doesn't know how to say that a report is all she has to offer, that taking stock of the situation is the only way her brain knows to deal with stress. Four Seven scrambles closer to her on the deck plating, awkwardly tugs Carolina's head down to press against her neck. She smells like sweat and soap and her pulse is beating too fast against Carolina's cheek.

"It's not your fault," the pilot says, awkward and short like platitudes don't come naturally.

"Shut up," says Carolina. "You don't know that. You don't know what happened."

"Fuck," says Four seven. She pets a hand through Carolina's hair, tugging it free of the elastic and trying fruitlessly to comb out the sweaty tangles. Carolina wants to tell her the attempt isn't as much soothing as it is sort of painful, but she can't seem to get enough breath to form words. She gasps harshly, a hand coming up to her chest plate, face going hot and suddenly Four Seven is the only thing holding her vaguely upright.

"Fuck," the pilot says, again. "Carolina, just breathe. C'mon, kid, it's gonna be ok. In and out."

It takes a while before she can draw in a full breath without choking, and then all her body wants to do is start sobbing, but she shoves that urge down ruthlessly. She's not the one who may never speak again. Four Seven's tucked a hand against the back of her neck, holding her in place.

"Good," Four Seven says. "You're doing good."

Carolina takes the words and the touch and hoards them deep down inside of herself. She has a feeling she's going to need them in the upcoming days.

*

do not imagine that the exploration  
ends, that she has yielded all her mystery  
or that the map you hold  
cancels further discovery

I tell you her uncovering takes years,  
takes centuries, and when you find her naked  
look again,  
admit there is something else you cannot name,  
a veil, a coating just above the flesh  
which you cannot remove by your mere wish  
when you see the land naked, look again  
(burn your maps, that is not what I mean),  
I mean the moment when it seems most plain  
is the moment when you must begin again

The Discovery, Gwendolyn MacEwen


End file.
